Come Away With Me
by rambling raconteur
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has (supposedly) died. The only ones that know his secret are Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and Molly Hooper. Why the mousy pathologist from St. Bart's? Because she counts. [Sherlolly, post Reichenbach. Rated T for language and hinted mature themes.]
1. a rapturous morning

**Hello! I'm kind of new to the Sherlock fanfiction scene, but a huge fan so...yeah. /nervous wave**

**I've found myself shipping Sherlolly with a fierce passion and I love to write so...here we go then. Thanks for reading!**

**Come Away With Me**

**By RamblingRaconteur**

_chapter one;_

_a rapturous morning_

* * *

"Sherlock."

She watched him pace, hands clasped behind his back, the frail moonlight hitting past the curtains onto his coat and hair.

A different coat. It was not as long and thick as his usual and was rather a suit jacket. His hair, pulled back and slicked until it was straight and flat upon his tall head. A single, stubborn curl stood just behind his left ear, and the urge to reach up and flatten it with a tender hand had niggled at her for a while now.

"_Sherlock_."

"What, what is it _now_, Molly?" he burst out impatiently, turning on her with a rather fearsome billowing coat, the moonlight behind him and tinging his shadowed features an unreal silver. She looked up at him from her seat on the sofa, decked out in pink and white pajamas, frozen in place. Her mouth opened, but she found the familiar sensation of words stuck in her throat again.

"I-I was just wondering if you needed a place to stay..." she said softly, not daring to meet his eyes at first, staring down at the ground. She heard him shift, and she bit her lip, waiting for his words to cut her yet again.

But the silence dragged on for a long while without him speaking, and eventually Molly Hooper looked up...and nearly jumped out of her skin.

Sherlock Holmes was leaned right over her, hovering for what had seemed an interminable amount of time (in her mind anyways), blue eyes glinting. She stared right back, more of that she was just stunned into silence than that she had the courage to return the gaze.

"Now that you ask, yes, that'd be quite nice," his breath was warm and a tingle ran down her spine. He straightened suddenly, going towards the door and pulling his coat tighter about him.

"Ah-Where are you off to now?" she stood. He opened the door and she quickly ran over to the door. "You'll be spotted. You're supposed to be dead."

"Don't worry," he mumbled in a lower tone. "I'll take an inconspicuous route." He was about to close the door when she snatched a dark woolen beanie hanging on a hook nearby and held it up, pressing a foot in front of the door to block it from closing. He stared quizzically at her for a moment.

"Are you suggesting that I should wear that?" his tone was more than a bit distasteful, but her wide brown eyes were resolute.

"I'm not having all the work we've done be ruined because somebody recognizes your forehead." With will that surprised herself and Sherlock, she reached up onto her tip-toes and smushed the hat down over his ears. He regarded her with slightly raised eyebrows, not breaking eye contact as she rolled back onto her heels. He considered smiling at her as he studied how she acted. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers fiddling, a nervous, familiar Molly-esque smile gracing her features.

Rather alluring features, as he often found himself thinking nowadays.

No. He wouldn't let this happen.

He nodded curtly, said a brief thank you and shut the door.

* * *

She gazed at the closed door for a moment, hardly able to breathe.

Had she, Molly Hooper, just really put a woolen beanie on the head of Sherlock Holmes?

She replayed the scene, and the mental picture of neat Sherlock Holmes in a suit jacket and tie, and a lumpy hand-knitted dark green beanie, made her laugh hysterically until she caught herself.

She self-diagnosed, a bit forlornly, that she was in shock.

She stumbled back to the sofa, falling back down on it as thoughts raced through her mind. Crazy, insane thoughts.

Molly needed tea.

She shuffled to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil, watching the water starting to froth.

Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes had died.

Died.

And although she had seen him minutes ago, very much alive, her chest tightened at the thought of him gone. She could not imagine how John felt at the moment. She felt terrible, lightheaded. Their mad plan had actually worked.

And although she knew she would feel horrible when she'd attend his 'funeral' and see Mrs. Hudson and John, both thinking that she knew just what they knew about the world's only consulting detective's 'demise', a strange sense of...elation coursed through her. She tried to relish it at the moment.

She was a part of his secret.

Her mind wandered back to the night before. He had taken some belongings to her flat where they sat in a borrowed case of hers in the corner of the living room. She had come with him to his empty flat, while John had still been hunched over the body, stood awkwardly in the corner, watching him rummage through his things, staring at some objects, holding the skull up from its mantel with a sentimental, bitter smile. Eventually he had taken what he'd needed and had turned to leave.

"Aren't you going to…" she trailed off, wondering how to word what was on her mind. "…say goodbye?"

"To a flat?" he wrinkled his nose, looking over his shoulder. "Goodbye, I suppose. Until next time." He looked about a bit longer before ushering Molly out the door, shutting it behind him and rushing down the stairs.

The door shut with a click, and Molly had turned, pulling her scarf up higher around her face. Sherlock touched the darkened golden numbers a bit wistfully, and she thought she saw a momentary smile on his face before he whirled around to follow.

He smiled oddly at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he started pulling her along down the sidewalk. She instinctively stiffened, rather taken aback by his strange behavior until he started to increase his pace to a hurried trot. She managed to look back and see Mrs. Hudson looking about, puzzled, on the stoop, and realized his reason for speeding up. Eventually they turned the corner and he managed to relax, letting the gray case roll along behind him. He didn't lower his arm from her shoulder, however, and she found herself leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Golden streetlights bathed the two between moments of stark darkness.

"Molly." Sherlock had said after a moment of quiet. She blinked a bit sleepily, yawning widely. He snickered softly, and her cold cheeks warmed.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you. For everything."

She'd looked up, startled for the second time that night. But she managed to nod, managed to believe him.

And now, as she heard the kettle click off, she knew he probably wouldn't step farther over the line like that. He had said what he had felt like he had to say, and Sherlock Holmes was not one for words.

She got to her feet wearily, slipping her toes into pink slippers and pouring tea into a cup. On a second thought, as thunder started to rumble above and the patter of rain sounded, she took down another mug and made another cuppa. She set it down on the chair across the table, pulled out a book, and began to read.

Minutes passed, then half an hour, and as the rain increased slowly, she set the book down, looking out the window anxiously. What was taking him?

She pulled the curtain open, leaning against the cold glass. She kept vigil on the street and sidewalk below her, but as much as she tried to stay awake, the day had been busy, keeping track of Sherlock's plans, dropping in quickly to work before taking leave...combined with the steady warmth of Toby who had curled up on her lap and the soft rain sound outside the window, she ended up nodding out.

Sherlock Holmes arrived back at the Hooper flat at eleven forty-two, ducked rather unscathed under a borrowed black umbrella. He closed it, about to call out when he saw her huddled by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, mouth slightly open as she breathed softly in sleep. He set the umbrella aside, smiling in spite of himself at the sight. A cup of lukewarm tea was clutched in her hand, another set across the table and full to the top. Toby blinked awake, golden eyes looking up at him and acknowledging that he had finished his shift, bounding down from her lap and disappearing into the kitchen.

* * *

The next morning Molly Hooper woke up in her bed, the familiar sound of faint traffic outside her window. Her memory flashed briefly to the night before, not remembering anything past sitting sleepily by the window...waiting for Sherlock.

She sat up suddenly and regretted it almost immediately. Her neck was inevitably sore and she groaned softly. She tried to ignore the ache and got out of bed with a thump. Had Sherlock made it back yet? What if something had happened to him?

She stumbled loudly towards the door, still rubbing sleep out of her eyes as she pulled the door open. There was noise from the kitchen, and as she looked about she sighed in relief. Sherlock's familiar tall figure was hunched over the stove, dark hair back to its curly state, looking tired, but alive.

"Good morning, Molly," he said evenly. "I can't quite figure out these eggs-" He turned around with a pan in his hand, and as she drew forwards she saw that the half-done sunny-side up was sprinkled with bits of shell. She looked up at him disbelievingly, but was only met with a serious, if rather perplexed gaze. She couldn't help herself and burst out in giggles. He only frowned, staring down at his work.

"Sherlock," she sighed, taking the pan and spatula from him and pushing him gently aside. His arm tingled where their skin met, and he found himself looking away with a blush. "You are quite clueless, aren't you? First the solar system, now eggs..."

"Who told you about that?" he turned back incredulously. "It was John, wasn't it? Or Donovan? It was Donovan." He smiled back at her delighted chuckles and he accompanied her, perched on the counter, bantering, watching her make breakfast and taking mental notes of how to make it the way Molly seemed to prefer. It was a slow, rapturous morning, as they ended up sharing the meal over talks of post-mortem bleeding and hints to head trauma in cadavers.

He loved it.

* * *

**My first Sherlock/Sherlolly fic but I really felt like I had to contribute so...yeah. :)**

******Reviews, please please please! **


	2. you know what i'd do for you

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! On a side note, I'm approved on Ao3 under the same username, if you were wondering. I'll probably post some fanart there if I fancy improving my art skills. :)**

_chapter two;_

_you know what i'd do for you_

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in the flat, eyes closed, hands steepled at his lips in his familiar manner. The differences, however, was that he was not in 221B and he was not thinking about the latest crime mystery.

He was thinking about Molly Hooper.

And although she may not have been the cause of a murder or a break in, she was still rather a mystery.

His blue eyes blinked open, pressing his hands into the armrest and hoisting himself up. His eyes traveled across the room habitually for his violin, which was, of course, not there. He sighed, collapsing back down on the chair with a huff.

How was Molly Hooper, the quiet, socially-awkward lab mouse still so enigmatic? He had thought he'd had her all figured out since the first day that he'd burst into Bart's. She obviously had deep feelings for Sherlock, and often he'd taken advantage of this. An unfamiliar pang of guilt hit in his stomach, and with that he turned his attentions towards himself.

How could someone so…insignificant set afire such…emotions? He had decided long ago that feelings were just something that would hinder his way. He saw many people come to their demise for the fault of sentiments. Love was boring, dangerous, pointless, and that was that.

And yet. He closed his eyes again, drawing her face up in his mind for the hundredth time. Chestnut brown hair, parted to the left (Almost always, ever since he'd told her he liked it. And honestly, he really did), tall button-nose, nervous smile. Wide, deep brown eyes.

He grumbled irritably at himself. _Foolish, foolish!_

"Sherlock!"

_Well, speak of the devil._ Though honestly he shouldn't have been so surprised. He was sitting in Molly's flat after all.

She came up the stairs, arms loaded down, he got to his feet and offered help with the groceries. She smiled thankfully and she hobbled after him to the kitchen.

"I heard from John that you never bother to help out with bags," she prodded lightly. He regarded her, a bit surprised. How much had she really heard about him? Did John really blab that much about him?

"Well, change is good, isn't it?" he responded in what he hoped was a similar tone. She beamed widely, putting the milk and perishables in the refrigerator.

"You're happy today."

"I am?"

He was honestly confused now.

"Well, you smile." she said, cheeks pinking. "Not that you never smiled before or anything…I just…" She trailed off, eyes widened as he seemed to draw closer. He returned her stare levelly, and she took a quick breath, looking away, the moment broken as soon as it had started. A dull pain echoed in his chest but he didn't pursue the matter further. He helped with the rest of the items, remembering where things went before retreating to his room and shutting the door.

He flopped down onto the bed chest-first and stifled a loud groan into his pillow. Bloody hell, what this woman did to him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Molly Hooper was similarly feeling like a soggy blanket.

She watched him leave suddenly, heard him land on the bed. And if she wasn't mistaken, heard him growl something to himself. She sighed forlornly, shuffling into the living room and reclining on the sofa.

She had taken leave from work, but now it really felt like there was nothing to do in the world. She wished she was cutting up cadavers. Oh, how delightful. How oddly, exclusively delightful.

Toby wandered in again, amber eyes glowing in the mid-morning light. The cat had rubbed up to Sherlock's ankles once in a while, but otherwise, quickly learned to leave the detective-out-of-work alone. He gave a soft mew and she patted her lap. The feline curled up and she stroked him absentmindedly, thinking about her current situation.

After the rather talkative breakfast, which she had loved beyond words, she had left him in her flat and went to Tesco. She had to restrain herself from dancing in the isles, but kept a small, perpetual smile on her face.

She'd come back to a contemplative Holmes who had helped her with the groceries, drew up close to her until their noses nearly touched, then promptly stormed into his room.

Damn him. Damn him and his ice blue eyes, his dark, curly hair, his crazy, brilliant mind—

Oh, Molly was doomed.

She shook her head sharply, forcing thoughts of a particular consulting detective out of it. She tried to focus on _the plan_ instead.

Molly wondered how long Sherlock would have to stay. The evening before, of planning, all he had said after the 'fall' was that he'd have to get preparations with his brother straight in London before going off and extinguishing the web of Moriarty's. She had agreed and not asked anything else because, frankly, she still had quite a bit of preparations herself for the faking of his corpse.

But now, her heart sank at the thought of him leaving.

Her fingers clenched involuntarily into fur and Toby writhed out from under her hand with a yowl. She gasped, whispering apologies to the sullen cat as he stalked away, ignoring her pleas. He'd been replaced, as far as the tomcat was concerned, and obviously not the apple of Molly's eye anymore. She sighed, throwing her head back onto the armrest of the settee.

This plan of his was even more complicated than originally thought.

* * *

"Molly Hooper."

She opened her eyes blearily, realizing that she had fallen asleep on the settee. Sherlock loomed over her, and she groaned as she sat up and stretched.

"Would it hurt to call me Molly?" she mumbled sleepily. He shrugged.

"Molly," he said, humoring her. "Mycroft's car should be coming any minute now. And I…" He cocked his head to the site, gazing at her curiously.

"What?" she narrowed her own eyes.

"You look very…aesthetic in sleep, Molly."

"You don't need to compliment me for a favor," she said tiredly, rubbing her eyes and getting to her feet, ignoring his strange choice of words and chalking it up to his social-inadequacy. "You know what I'd do for you." His eyebrows drew together confusedly but she only met his gaze.

"What do you need?" her words echoed the fateful night before, but this time her eyes were clear of tears and she stood with a new sense of assurance. He frowned slightly, intrigued.

"Come with me," he said simply. And though Molly knew that he merely meant for her to accompany him to Mycroft's place, a strange thought that he somehow meant more crossed her mind. She nodded silently, grabbing her coat and purse and following his quick strides out the door. They stepped out onto the street just as the black car pulled up. He opened the door for her first, and as she stooped to sit down into the leather bucketseat he said something that made her blink and blush.

"I wasn't looking for a favor."

* * *

**Aesthetic. Something I thought Sherlock would say anyways, haha.**

**Reviews pleaase?**


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